Dark Moon
by M. Willow
Summary: A surprising twist may lead to death. Final chapter up. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

Dark Moon

By M. Willow

_Disclaimer: Man From Uncle Characters don't belong to me. I'm working on the house though._

Roses dotted the landscape surrounding the porch of the Queen Anne Victorian house.

They were pink with a delicate blending of white. Napoleon's house had become well known for its spectacular display of flowers, both exotic and local, but it was the roses that garnered the most attention. Solo knew that it took the care of two of his best friends, April and Illya, to produce such beauty. And so the garden had a special place in his heart.

Now, he watched the tree lined road as the sunlight streamed across the porch, the heavy scent of roses in the air. A gentle breeze caressed his face as he sipped a glass of ice tea. It was the hottest day of the year, so he had made a pitcher of the amber liquid to share with his friend Illya. Solo had not seen the Russian in four months. Not since the blond agent was kidnapped and tortured by Thrush.

Illya had been rescued two months ago. The Russian had suffered a complete nervous breakdown and was residing at a special clinic for UNCLE agents. Contact between the two agents had not been allowed at Illya's request. This disturbed Solo—they had always supported each other. It had been the hallmark of their eight year partnership. Still, Napoleon realized that Illya had endured more in this particular affair than ever before. So he respected the Russian's desire for privacy.

It was Waverly who suggested the Victorian house for Illya's recuperation after the dismal failure of the psychiatrist clinic. Napoleon had purchased it less than a year ago because of a desire to put down roots. A horrible incident had occurred in which Illya had been imprisoned behind a wall in the house by a man name James Triton. Illya was eventually rescued, but Solo never felt the same way about living there. It had taken both Illya and April to convince him not to sell the house. Now it was used as a retreat by all three agents.

In preparation of Illya's arrival, Napoleon had spent weeks discussing psychiatric difficulties with UNCLE medical experts. He was told to expect a man very different from the friend whom he had come to know and love as a brother. The psychiatrist, would not, however, provide details about what had actually happened to the Russian during his captivity. That was left to Illya to disclose. Napoleon was prepared to do anything to recover his partner's sanity, even if it meant giving up UNCLE. He was aware of the psychiatric hospital for UNCLE agents who never recovered and he was determined that Illya would not spend the rest of his life living there. He had already made arrangements for their disappearance if needed.

In the distance, Napoleon spotted the yellow cab coming up the oak tree lined road. He was uncharacteristically nervous as he observed the approach. Soon the cab was in his driveway. He steeled his nerves and walked toward the cab as Illya descended. It took all of his trained agent experience not to react to the site before him. Illya had lost at least 20 pounds, so his clothes hung loosely about his body. His blond hair was cut in a short, severe style, and seemed dry and lifeless. His eyes were distant, pained.

It was like looking at a different man.

Illya moved toward him, then suddenly stopped and staggered. Napoleon moved quickly to prevent him from falling. The Russian righted himself, grabbing the door of the cab. "I'm fine Napoleon," he said with a thick accent. "I promise I will not faint in your driveway."

"Would never think of it, Tovarish. I was merely coming to help you with your bag." He said that indicating a bag that Illya held protectively at his side.

"I can carry it!" Illya said angrily.

Napoleon was shocked. The Russian had never spoken to him in that tone before. Still, his friend had suffered greatly in the past four months. Solo resolved to help him get through this and decided not to respond to the angry outburst. He quickly went to the trunk of the car, grabbing his friend's luggage. He paid the driver and ushered Illya into the house.

"Perhaps you would like to go upstairs and rest, Illya. I have everything ready for you and later all the food you can eat."

Illya smiled. "Thanks Napoleon. I didn't mean to shout a minute ago. I am just so tired of people treating me as if I am a fragile doll." He looked down to the floor than looked up at his friend.

Napoleon could see the pain in the Russian's eyes. He had never seen his friend so emotionally scared. He walked toward the stairs still carrying the luggage. "That's okay. Don't worry about it." Napoleon changed the subject. "So you heard from April?" he questioned.

"No, Waverly would not allow contact with anyone from UNCLE at my request."

"I know," Napoleon said, trying to keep the hurt from his voice.

They entered Illya's room. Napoleon laid the luggage on the floor next to the bed and said, "I'll leave you now and prepare some lunch. You must be hungry. Would you like anything special?"

Illya smiled, "You know I will eat anything."

"Well, Okay. See you downstairs."

"Yes. See you downstairs." Illya turned and started to unpack his bags.

Napoleon prepared a lunch of turkey on wheat, with a large strawberry pie purchased from Mavis's bakery. The house was warm in spite of the air conditioning. Solo was glad that he had prepared the ice tea earlier. It was perfect for a hot summer afternoon.

Soon the Russian appeared and sat across from Napoleon. He was unusually quiet, with that same hunted appearance that Napoleon observed earlier. The Russian hungrily gobbled the sandwiches, only looking at Napoleon for a few seconds between bites. Finally, Napoleon broke the uncomfortable silence. "So Illya, how do you feel?"

"Fine. Just a little shaken that's all."

"Anything you'd like to talk about?"

"No," was Illya's short response.

Napoleon was use to the Russian's reticence. But he had also been told by the psychiatrist that it was important to get him to talk about what happened during his captivity. It was the only way he could truly recover.

He locked eyes with his partner. "You know you have to deal with this at some point, don't you?"

"But not today," Illya answered sharply.

"Well, I want you to know that when you're ready, I'm here. I mean, we can talk anytime."

Illya looked up. "I know. I just need time. It was…" and here his voice broke. "It was unspeakable." At that he continued to eat, Napoleon still looking at him before grabbing a sandwich of his own.

It was one week later when Napoleon heard the study beep of his communicator.

"Good morning Mr. Solo. How is Mr. Kuryakin?" Waverly asked.

"He's coming along. We are going fishing this morning." Solo added. He didn't want to tell him that no progress had been made.

Waverly paused. In the background Solo could hear the old man strike a match and knew that he was attempting to light his pipe. Then he continued. "See that Mr. Kuryakin recovers sufficiently to resume his position, Mr. Solo. If it is not possible for him to return, I will need to know that. I am prepared to offer any assistance you may require. Keep me informed." And the communication was severed.

Napoleon thought about what Waverly's assistance might entail. For the first time in his career at UNCLE, he thought of the old man as the enemy.

Napoleon and Illya sat silently at the lake. They had not readied their fishing poles as yet, but instead observed the calm blue water of the lake. The sounds of birds and a gentle breeze disturbed the quiet calm of morning. In spite of the relative peacefulness of their surroundings, the sense of urgency hung heavily in the air, demanding attention. Napoleon realized that a week had passed and still the Russian had not opened up to him, still remaining in his protective cocoon. The UNCLE psychiatrist had suggested that Napoleon try reminiscing with his partner. Now, he saw this tactic as his last hope.

He looked at his friend. "Illya, remember that time in the Casbah when we were trying to get that code book?"

Illya was quiet for a second and then smiled. "Of course, Napoleon, who could ever forget?" He chuckled. "I had to spend the night with a beautiful woman and so did you."

"Hmm. You never did tell me what happened, Tovarish," Napoleon said.

Illya smiled and said, "And I never will. Gentlemen simply don't!"

Soon both men where laughing and talking about past adventures. Napoleon felt pleased— he had finally made a breakthrough.

They returned to the house late in the afternoon. Illya was more relaxed, and although he didn't talk about his capture and torture, the Russian had readily reminisced about old missions. Illya was tired after the long fishing trip and retired for a nap.

Napoleon didn't see his friend until later in the evening. He had just finished preparing dinner when he emerged. Napoleon smiled, you could always count on the Russian to appear when food was available. Soon they dined on fish and rice. Illya sat at the table hungrily devouring the fresh fish as if he had never had a meal in his life. The Russian's eyes where alert and responsive. Gone was the man who had sunk within himself, replaced by a reasonable facsimile of his old friend. Illya warmed to the topics which ranged from current events to old and somewhat new missions. They spoke for a few minutes about the lunar eclipse expected that night. Napoleon recalled how his grandmother always referred to the lunar eclipses as the dark moon. Later they enjoyed a quiet game of chess and then retired for the evening.

It was not just the presence in the room that awakened Solo; it was the sense of danger. He was in bed and someone was in his room. His left hand reached slowly under his pillow, grabbing the gun in one fluid motion. He opened his eyes, scanning the room, looking for the source of his discomfort. The room was cast in eerie darkness. It took seconds for Solo to realize that it was the night of the eclipse, the night of the dark moon.

He had recalled closing the curtains before he slept, but now they were open and he could see the face of the moon, with its dark coppery color. The moon was in a constant state of change, threatening to enclose this room, this time in utter darkness. A man stood in front of the window. The man did not move, just stared at the moon. He seemed hypnotized by its beauty. The faint scent of roses permeated the air. And Solo realized that the window was open. His breath remained normal, in semblance of sleep. He did not want to alert this person to his wakefulness. A faint breeze stirred, moving the white curtains in a melodic rhythm. A ghostly silence fell and then the figure slowly, almost imperceptibly turned, turned toward Solo. And then his voice, "They held me for two months, Napoleon. Two months. Do you know what they can do to a man in two months?"

Napoleon relaxed, but not completely. His hand still held the gun for reasons he could not understand. After all, this was his best friend standing here, yet something felt wrong and his hair stood on end. He could hear Illya's voice and the beat of his own heart. Every instinct told him to keep the gun in his hand, to watch the window with the form of his friend still standing there. Then the room started to darken and slowly they were cast into darkness. Napoleon's breath caught in his throat. He was vaguely aware that the Russian had stopped talking. He could hear the sound of footsteps as they moved toward him, and then the room was silent.

"Illya," he found himself saying. "You startled me. I could have killed you."

"Maybe, I was counting on that." Illya paused. "I've been at the window for some time, Napoleon," he said slowly. "You're slipping." His voice was icy cold.

Napoleon's body felt on fire with the tension of the moment. Illya stood very close to him now. He looked like a shadow, something that was unearthly. Solo found that he needed light, needed to chase away the darkness. He reached for the lamp, illuminating the room in seconds. He still held the gun. . His friend locked eyes with him, and for a few seconds, Napoleon glimpsed the depths of hell. They each looked into the others eyes, the silence enveloping them, somehow separating them from the reality of the moment. Napoleon could not move, he felt his body shudder and hoped it was not visible to the man standing in his room. He felt guilty for he still held the gun. And so he released it at once. Still, the tension remained. The man stepped closer to him, and Solo wanted to grab the gun again, wanted to feel its cold reassurance in his hand. Instead, he said, "You want to talk, Tovarish?"

"No Napoleon." And at that he left the room leaving Napoleon sitting in stunned silence.

_It was strange standing in his room. So close. I could hear his breathing as I stood at the window. It was a game really. How long could I stand there without him noticing me? Not long, I discovered. He had been awake for some time, watching me, reaching for his gun. How easy it would have been to have just killed him as he slept. After all, I had the information they needed. Still there was the game. I had long tired of just killing. Anyone could just kill a man. Killing should be an art form, thought out and planned. First there was poison. A man could die slowly without ever realizing that he was being murdered. I loved looking into the eyes of these unsuspecting victims. Then there was the knife. I liked this method because I had to get close to my victim to kill him. It was an adrenalin rush, I'm sure, but fun nevertheless. _

_I always carry a gun, just in case. But I knew that it would not be needed, for Napoleon Solo would never suspect that his friend Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin is still in the hands of Thrush and I am his executioner. _

End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon awoke with a start. He could hear the steady beat of rain against his window. The scent of bacon and eggs hung heavily in the air. Illya must be preparing breakfast, he thought hungrily. He reached for his robe and thought about last night when he discovered Illya in his room. It was so uncharacteristic of the Russian, but what he couldn't explain was his strange reaction upon seeing his friend. He had actually feared for his life. Must have been the effects of the lunar eclipse, he laughed to himself.

Solo showered, dressed, and headed for the kitchen. He found Illya standing next to a large pot of coffee. "Sit down Napoleon, I've made fresh coffee and some breakfast."

"I'm rather surprised, Tovarish," Napoleon said while taking a seat. "You've never been known to cook"

"Well, I was up early and thought, why not." Illya said while handing Napoleon a steaming cup of coffee.

Napoleon took the proffered coffee, added sugar and cream, stirring lightly.

Illya handed Solo a plate with eggs and bacon then took the seat directly opposite of him. He looked at Napoleon and then started to eat the eggs and the bacon voraciously.

"So what do we have planned for today, Napoleon?"

"Not much. Thought we could go into town. Maybe have some lunch if it's okay with you?"

"Sure. Sounds good, but why don't we go sailing today. I would really like to get out, get some fresh air?"

"I'm not so sure about that. It's raining and I heard storms may be in the forecast," Napoleon said.

Illya looked disappointed. "The rain should stop in an hour. We can go around noon. I doubt that there will be storms all day. And besides, you are an excellent sailor." The Russian paused, looking down at his plate, and then continued, his voice low. "Napoleon, I have been virtually held prisoner for four months if you count the psychiatric clinic. I... I need to feel the wind on my face. Feel free." His voice caught. Napoleon realized the Russian was fighting for control.

"Sure," he found himself saying. "We can go sailing. I'll check on rental information. We can leave around noon."

"I would like that very much," Illya said, and then shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

_I watched him drink his coffee and thought about my suitcase upstairs—the one I had been holding when I first arrived. Solo would be surprised at the arsenal that I have. Let's see, poison, guns, a few grenades, and plenty of things to start a fire. And of course the knife. So much fun. And sailing presents endless possibilities._

The lake was calm, the pale sun casting a warm glow on the agents sitting in the small sailboat. Napoleon was again attempting to engage his friend in conversation about his captivity. The Russian refused to cooperate and so they talked about recent missions.

Soon the waters became choppy and the sun disappeared. The storm was returning and Napoleon was anxious to get back. He was feeling dizzy— like he was coming down with something.

Illya was uncharacteristically quiet during the excursion, glimpsing Napoleon on occasion. When he did it was with an intensity that was almost unnerving. Napoleon could feel his eyes on him even when his back was turned.

They were returning to the dock when it happened. The sky had become cloudy and flashes of lighting could be seen in the distance. Napoleon had turned away from Illya. It was then that he felt strong hands on his back. He felt his legs slide and then he stumbled into the water. Napoleon was desperately trying to grab the rail of the boat. He was a strong swimmer, but now he felt weak and so he struggled. The Russian stood there, looking at him, his eyes impassive. Napoleon finally grasped the rail and pulled himself aboard. It was then that his friend reacted, coming to him with concern in his eyes.

"Are you Okay, Napoleon?"

"Yes, of course. Why didn't you help, Illya?" Solo said sharply.

The blond staggered, looking as if he were about to faint.

Napoleon reached for him, steadying him.

"I don't know, Napoleon. For a moment I just froze. Forgive me." And then he broke down and cried.

It was Solo who drove home. He recalled the moment on the boat, when he had felt something push him. Still, his mind rejected it, for to accept it was to enter madness. He recalled the conversations with the psychiatrist. Yes, they had warned him that the Russian would be different. They had told him to expect erratic behavior. Yet, they had not warned him that his friend was capable of murder. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had been pushed. Even now, he could feel the hands on his back, pressing him, forcing him into the water.

Solo recalled his near panic as he hit the gray water, and the Russian's quiet intensity. There was no panic in his friend's face. Instead he appeared calm and accepting of his impending death. And then, Napoleon had somehow found the strength to pull himself aboard the boat. It had not been easy. He was weak. And his friend had never offered to help.

Had Illya tried to kill him? Would he try again? Still, this was his best friend, a man who was like a brother to him. It had to be his imagination. He was tired, sick. His mind was playing tricks on him. No, his friend had not tried to kill him. He was merely petrified and shocked into inactivity. The psychiatrist had warned him of the Russian's mental breakdown.

He glimpsed the man sleeping next to him. His friend, his partner, his brother, yet he did not know him.

_How easy it would have been to kill him on the boat. He was so dizzy and weak after my delicious breakfast. But the fun has just started and I am a patient man. _

Napoleon drove into the driveway of the house. The blond stirred and looked at the American agent. Napoleon asked, "You okay?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I am sorry that I broke down like that on the boat. It was most uncharacteristic of me, Napoleon."

"You know you can talk to me, don't you? I mean, you can tell me anything," Napoleon said.

"I would like to talk, just not today. I'm tired."

"Okay. Why don't you go up and get some rest. Maybe we could talk later," Napoleon said.

"Yes. Later."

"Hey, Ralph. How bout we hit the clubs tonight. You know, pick up some girls. Have a little fun.

"We can't Joe. We got babysitting duty."

"You mean Blondie here? Man. He ain't going no where. We can sneak otta here and nobody will know the difference. He's been in a coma for four months. All he does is lay in that bed, day after day, night after night. Hell, the world could end and he'd still be sleepin in that bed." He laughed at his own joke. "Don't know why they even keep him alive. Folks go into a coma, never come out."

"Yeah. Well we still got babysitting duty. You might as well get use to it. They don't want him left alone. So that means you and me get to spend some time with blondie instead of a couple of blondes tonight," Ralph replied.

Joe sighed, "Why do they keep him alive Ralph?"

"Well, I heard they're not to sure they can get what they want from Solo. In case they don't, they got Blondie here as a backup."

"Some backup. How are they gonna wake him up?" asked Joe.

"Think I know?" replied Ralph.

Both men sat down in the chairs that flanked the small blond man who lay unconscious in the bed."

"Oh, well, you wanna play 20 questions Ralph."

"Sure. Why not."

End Chapter Two

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	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The blond man slept until late in the evening. Napoleon was in the garden when he heard the arrival of his companion. He turned and greeted him. "Didn't think you would ever get up, Tovarish."

"Sorry, Napoleon, did you have plans for us?"

"No. Just thought we could talk."

"Not now, Napoleon."

"Listen, Illya. This thing is eating you up. Maybe talking can help. You've always trusted me. Let me help."

"Napoleon, there are some things that are beyond even your vast abilities." Illya said sharply.

Napoleon was stung. He had never seen his friend this way. He felt utterly powerless.

Illya walked over to the pitcher of ice tea, his back to Napoleon as he poured. He turned facing Napoleon, eyeing his empty glass. "Would you like some more ice tea?"

Napoleon agreed, and the Russian walked toward him, and poured the tea. Illya sat back on one of the wooden chairs, his eyes closed as if in thought. Napoleon drank his tea.

Two days had passed since the agents sipped ice tea on the porch. Now, an early morning breeze shuffled through Napoleon's room. It was actually chilly, but the dark haired agent had no interest in closing the window. He felt horribly sick to his stomach and his head ached without end. For two days he had been sick, and the Russian had tended to his needs— bringing soup and water whenever he needed it, helping him to dress and bathe. Still, he was not improving. He thought of calling a doctor, but rejected the notion because Illya seemed to have improved since he had become sick. Maybe that's what his friend needed—to care for someone else.

_Poison. So much fun. I feed him a little each day and watch him move closer to death. This is far more fun than I realized. I am so happy that I didn't kill him on the boat. It would have been so easy, but where's the fun? Matching wits with the number one spy is better than I could imagine. I hate to see it end. _

The room was quiet. Awareness came slowly. First he moved his hands. And then his eyes opened. It was not a familiar room. He searched for his friend. He did not see him, nor feel his presence. Must be aThrush satrapy, he thought. His mind was muddled and his body weak. He heard the door open and closed his eyes.

Two men entered. They were playing some sort of game. He listened, hoping to get a clue as to his whereabouts. He had to get away!

Napoleon wanted to go downstairs and sit on the porch. He knew that he could not possibly make it on his own. He didn't want to ask Illya for help. He felt badly that his friend was forced to wait on him hand and foot when it should have been the reverse. Still, there was little he could do.

He heard the doorbell ring. He didn't move, just shivered under the covers. Illya would answer it. He snuggled under the quilt and slept. It was the sound of his bedroom door opening that awakened him. The Russian stood there for a second with a dinner tray in his hands. He just stared at Napoleon. Finally, he moved toward him.

"Who was at the door, Illya?" Napoleon asked.

"No one in particular. Just some neighbor kid trying to sell candy." I hate candy drives. This is the forth time today that a child has come selling candy." The Russian put the tray before Solo. It contained soup, crackers, and a large cup of tea. The blond plopped down in the chair next to Napoleon's bed.

"Does the bell disturb you, Napoleon?"

"A little." He shivered.

The blond looked at him. "Maybe I could put a sign on the door telling them to not use the bell. They could just knock."

"Yes. That might be best," Napoleon said.

"Okay." The Russian relaxed into the chair and continued to stare at Napoleon.

Napoleon looked at the man sitting next to him. There was something wrong. Solo was sick. Normally, Illya would have insisted that he see a doctor. But not this time. Something was wrong, but he could not seem to grasp its meaning. His mind was in a fog and it was hard to think. He could barely stay awake. He could recall something about a boat. And then he lost consciousness.

_He's dying. It shouldn't be long now. I have plenty of poison to finish him off. Today, his boss called. I told him that we were going out of town for a few days. After all, I don't want to be interrupted during my final performance. I sounded cheerful and the man warmed to my so called recovery. I'm really quite the actor._

"I can't take much more of this," Joe said. "I'm going out tonight. Twelve hours with a corpse is too much for me. I'm going. You comin?"

"We can't. I told you that a few days ago," Ralph answered with exasperation.

"Well you stay. I'm going out. I told you. He ain't going nowhere. We can go and come. There's nobody here but you and me. Nobody's gonna know. Thrush knows he ain't waking up. That's why nobody's here but you and me. You thought of that?"

Ralph looked at the blond lying in the bed. "Well. I suppose you're right. A few hours won't matter. Okay let's go."

Illya heard the two men leave the room. He was weak, but he knew that this was his only opportunity for escape. He willed his arms to move—first the left arm and then the right. Now for his legs. He sat up and pulled the feeding tube out of his mouth. His eyes scanned the room. It looked like a typical bedroom.

Illya always knew that he would probably escape at night. Joe and Ralph were always talking about how bored they were. How they wanted to go out and get a couple of blondes and have fun.

Now, Illya swung his legs over the side of the bed. He gingerly put his feet on the floor, testing his strength. He held onto the bed in order to stand. He felt weak and immediately fell to the floor. Well, he would simply crawl if he had to. So he crawled toward the door and hoped that it was not some type of huge Thrush satrapy. He opened the door and discovered that it was actually a small house.

He noted a black telephone only a few feet in front of him. He crawled with agonizing speed to the telephone and then made the call that would free him from prison.

Waverly still couldn't believe the telephone call he received a few hours ago. A man, calling himself Illya, told him that he was being held by Thrush in a house somewhere. A trace of the phone call revealed that this man was only a few miles from New York headquarters. UNCLE agents had arrived and affected his rescue within minutes. Now the man sat across from him in the conference room, looking for all intent and purposes like Illya Kuryakin.

Waverly cleared his throat. "If I am to believe you, you were being held by Thrush while in a coma. How do I know who you are, young man?"

"I don't understand, sir. Who else could I be?"

"A man was found over two months ago who also called himself Illya Kuryakin. This man looks exactly like you."

"That's impossible sir. I am Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin."

Waverly knew he had to make a decision. A lot was at stake. They still didn't know what Thrush was after and his gut instinct told him that the man sitting across from him was indeed Illya. Still, he needed proof. He noticed that Illya was barely able to keep his eyes opened and looked as if he was about to pass out. He asked his next question quickly, noting the blond's reaction.

"Young man, how did you come to be in the hands of Thrush?"

Illya looked down at his hands. He was shaking. "I was captured by Thrush on a mission. The last thing I recalled was hearing a gun fire and falling into a pit. I was in a coma until recently. I have no memory of how I came to be in that house, nor how long I was held."

Waverly lit his pipe, the pale smoke swirled into the air. The agent who called himself Illya Kuryakin waited patiently.

"That is not enough, young man. It would not be the first time that Thrush has resorted to such practices to advance their nefarious cause."

"You may check my fingerprints," Illya suggested.

"Unfortunately, that proves nothing. Thrush can alter fingerprints."

"May I contact Napoleon? He would know who I am. Where is Napoleon?"

"Never mind that, young man. Until your identity is ascertained, you will not be allowed contact with UNCLE personnel."

Illya looked nervously about the room. "But sir, at least let me speak to April?"

"No, you may not," Waverly said.

"But sir, I must. Is Napoleon in danger? Just tell me that."

Waverly considered his next course of action. He had tried to contact Solo several times on his communicator. He knew the American was out of town, but still he should have answered. He had considered contacting Illya, but under the circumstances, elected not to take that chance. Waverly regarded the man sitting across from him. He looked so much like Illya. It was remarkable, but so had the other man. He thought for a moment and pressed the intercom. "Please send Miss Dancer in."

They both sat back regarding each other. Then the door opened and an April stood staring at the Russian and Waverly left the room.

April entered and seated herself across from the blond man. She looked at the guards. "Leave us," she commanded. At first the guards did not move, but then they noted her icy glare and reluctantly left the room.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm Illya, April. You know me. Please. I feel that Napoleon is in danger."

"How do I know that you are not, in fact, the imposter?"

"Look at me, April!" He reached across and touched her hands. "Look at me! You know who I am. I know of your psychic abilities. You did it once and it saved my life. Do it now. Do it for Napoleon." His eyes were pleading. And April looked at him and saw into his soul.

April paced the floor of Waverly's conference room. The old man had finally checked Illya's fingerprints. Still, that alone was not enough to convince him of the Russian's identity. It was April's insistence that it really was her friend that finally convinced him. She explained that only the Russian could know certain personal details of her life.

Now, she stared at the old man. "Please, sir, what are we doing about rescuing Napoleon?" She asked abruptly.

"Miss Dancer, please calm down. We are making every effort to contact Mr. Solo."

April stood before Waverly for a few seconds, and then plopped down in a chair. Waverly continued. "I spoke to Mr. Kuryakin, uh…uh, the imposter a few days ago. He informed me that they were going out of town for a few days. That may explain why we cannot get in touch with them. Miss. Dancer, Mr. Solo may not be in danger. Whatever Thrush wanted from him may prevent this imposter from terminating him."

April sighed, concern evident in her face. "We don't know that, sir. I would like to go to the house and check for myself. For all we know they could still be there." Her voice was pleading. The old man regarded her for a second, and then pressed the intercom.

"Miss Rogers, please have Mr. Slate join us."

A storm blew across New York. Only the sound of thunder interrupted the conversation of Mark and April as they drove toward Oak Wood. April had insisted that Mark drive the car. Since Mark had never visited the house, April gave directions. Mark looked at her sitting next to him. She was becoming tense with each passing mile. Mark was aware of April's special abilities. She had told him about it shortly after Illya's rescue from the diabolical plot of James Triton. He had believed it because he trusted her. Yet it was outside the realm of anything he had encountered in his life.

Now he watched her. She stared straight ahead as the rain splattered across the windshield. Finally she spoke. "Mark, I know they are at the house. It's my fault that I didn't pay attention earlier."

Mark knew what she was talking about. April had been nervous since their arrival from a mission earlier that morning. He had questioned her about it and she shrugged it off to Jet Lag.

"April. This is not your fault. How could you have possibly known?"

"We both know why I should have known, Mark," April said slowly.

"You admitted that your sixth sense thing isn't perfect. How could you expect to know everything?"

"I know you're right. It's just. It's just that when someone as close to me as Napoleon…Well I should have known the minute the plan landed."

"Not always, April." Mark said with conviction as he turned down yet another street.

"I know and that is the frustrating thing about this. Why can't my so called gift be more reliable? I can never count on it, Mark. I mean, this is Napoleon we're talking about. Not some stranger and yet, I only felt uneasy. It's just not good enough."

"I know. I know April, but we're not too late. We will get there in time."

Napoleon looked about the room. All of the lights were off. A few candles above the fireplace were the only source of light. He could see lightning flashing in the window, the sound of thunder growing closer. The window was opened and the curtains blew angrily. The blond man sat beside his bed now, staring directly into his eyes. He had a smile on his face. Napoleon struggled to get up and heard the soft voice of the man. "Do not move. You are too sick, Napoleon. You'll never be able to stand."

Napoleon knew that it was true and so he lay back down and his body shook uncontrollably. "Call an ambulance," he found himself saying.

"No need for that," said the blond. "You are almost dead."

Napoleon again struggled to get up. This man was trying to kill him. For days he suspected that the blond man was an imposter. And now he had the proof. How could it have taken so long to figure it out? It was the damn experts that had caused him to accept a man who was so unlike Illya. He had called them after the incident on the boat. Told them how he thought he may have been pushed. The doctor told him that Illya would never kill anyone, especially him. They had implied that it was his imagination. And he had believed it.

He told the doctor of the strange way the Russian looked at him sometimes. The doctor explained that it may be possible that Illya blamed him for not rescuing him. And Solo felt guilty. After that he ignored everything his friend did. Now, he lay breathing his last breath with this stranger in a dark room.

April was quiet. Her eyes focused firmly on the road. As they entered the perimeter of Oak Wood, they noticed that all of the lights were out. Apparently, the storm had caused a massive power failure in the town. Now, Mark turned on the bright lights of the car, illuminating the road. They were less than one mile from the house now.

"Mark. Stop the car." April suddenly said.

"Why?"

"There is another way into the house. I am convinced that he is in the house. We must not let him see us coming."

Mark pulled the car into a small area of the road and both agents got out. The rain fell heavily and both were instantly soaked. The area was covered with mud, tall weeds, and wild flowers. Several hills of various sizes dotted the landscape. April looked about as if she were searching for something. Then said, "There is a secret passage that Napoleon had installed a few months ago. It is a tunnel that connects the house to this area. Napoleon thought it was a good idea to have a separate way to get in or out of the house in case of emergency."

"I don't see anything, April."

"That's the point."

The road was vacant. Flashes of lightning illuminated the sky. April scrambled up one of the hills, Mark following. The mud made it difficult to climb. Several times either Mark or April found themselves sliding down the hill.

April spoke. "The idea of the secret tunnel was to provide an escape route just in case another James Triton type happened along. It was built without the town's folk's knowledge, mostly at night. It's strictly state of the art, designed by the technical geniuses at UNCLE. I've never had to use it before."

"Well, it's a brilliant idea. What part of the house will we enter?" Mark asked.

"We have four choices—each of the three bedrooms and the kitchen. I think we should enter through Napoleon's bedroom. I know that's were they'll be," she said with certainty.

"Are you getting any impressions of the imposter, April? I mean, can you see him?"

"No. I've never been able to get an impression of someone evil. I mean, I wouldn't be able to see a murderer or something along those lines. Don't ask me to explain because I can't understand it myself. If I get close enough, I can see sort of an outline. How can I describe this?" She paused. "You know when you see a shadow. You know it's not the real person. But the shadow is still an aspect of who that person is, even if you can't recognize them. That's what I see. A shadow."

They continued to climb. Finally, April reached into a lush growth of weeds. A small panel appeared and April entered a combination. In a few seconds a small door opened and both agents scrambled in. They entered a tunnel. The tunnel was small and narrow, but allowed both agents to stand at full height. April walked in front with Mark following closely behind.

"Normally, this tunnel would have lights," April said. "The power failure must have caused them to go out. It's too bad we don't have a flashlight or something, but there is an emergency backup light further up ahead."

"Yes, but April this is weird. I can't hear your footsteps."

"That's just another technical aspect of the tunnel. If we were being pursued, a person would not be able to listen for footsteps to find us. You see, this tunnel goes to three different parts of the town." April replied.

"Well, I'm impressed. I guess they thought of everything." Mark said.

Both agents silently continued to walk down the tunnel.

Napoleon fought for consciousness. He glimpsed the blond man by his side. The man smiled. "So, you have decided to grace me with your presence."

"What have you done with Illya?" Napoleon asked.

"Ah, so the great Napoleon Solo has figured it out. Well, allow me to introduce myself. I am Oleg Karshov. So what gave me away?"

Napoleon gave a wry smile. "It was your warmth and great personality. Now, where is Illya?"

"Hell if I know. I only had this side of the mission," Karshov replied.

"And what was your mission?" Napoleon asked weakly.

"To find out where a scientist was located. Oh, I must thank you for providing that information. All that reminiscing. Like taking candy from a baby." The blond man laughed.

"Then why are you still here?"

"To kill you, of course." He paused for a few seconds. "I imagine you are wondering why I am taking so long to do it. Well, it's quite simple. I wanted to savor the moment. You see, Napoleon, you are like a fine wine. Your death should be enjoyed and savored. Not hastily taken."

The man moved closer to Napoleon, warming to the topic.

"You see, I've killed a lot of people. I am the best in my field just as you are, Mr. Solo. I was employed by Thrush to get information from you and I succeeded. Of course, I neglected to give that piece of information to my employers so I could spend this time with you. You see, it is I who determines the method of death. And poison is my favorite."

"Is Illya dead?"

"If he is not dead, he soon will be. You see, Thrush wanted both of you alive until they retrieved the information. It is my understanding that some employee shot Mr. Kuryakin causing him to fall and leaving him in a coma. That's where I came in. You see, they knew that torture and their usual methods of retrieving information would be ineffective against UNCLE conditioning. They brought me in and made some changes to my physical appearance. It took a few months for me to heal, and then they came up with the idea of having me act crazy when UNCLE finally rescued me. They knew that any slip I made, could be easily covered under the guise of insanity" The man laughed and continued. "I'm quite the actor, you know." I just acted crazy and then waited for them to send me home to you. My hero! It was all so easy."

Napoleon shuddered. He felt foolish. How could he have provided sensitive information to this man?

"What scientist are we talking about?" Napoleon asked.

"Some woman named Laura Blackburn."

Napoleon recalled the woman scientist. She had come to UNCLE seeking help because she realized the potential danger of the machine getting into the wrong hands. The machine could place specific thoughts in a person's mind. It was subliminal persuasion on a grand scale. The scientist was placed in a sort of witness protection program. Solo and Illya had been assigned the task of hiding her. Strict secrecy was involved and UNCLE used a special procedure to prevent the information being forcefully retrieved through torture or brainwashing. Not even Waverly knew of Dr. Blackburn's location.

Now, both she and Illya were in danger. And it was Solo's fault. If he did not survive, the fate of the world was in jeopardy. Somehow, he knew that he had to live. He just didn't know how. He looked at Karshov. The man had a smile and an evil glint in his eyes.

"Why don't' you just leave?" Napoleon asked.

"Why, Mr. Solo, are you pleading for your life?"

"I wouldn't give you the satisfaction." He said weakly.

"Too bad. It would have been fun to see you groveling. Of course, I would still have to kill you."

"You have to know that UNCLE is on to you. They are on their way now." Napoleon said.

The man stared at him with those eyes that were so like Illya and yet not. "You're bluffing. No one knows we're here. In fact, they think we're out of town."

Napoleon's heart sank. What chance of rescue could he expect? He couldn't escape. He could barely move. He thought of Illya. Hopefully still alive. And then he thought of April. April with her uncanny ability to sense things, especially about her close friends, and he and April were close.

Mark and April moved through the tunnel with speed. Eventually, they stopped and a small area of the tunnel was illuminated with light from the emergency backup. April opened a small door on the wall. It contained a keypad. She punched some numbers and the panel moved revealing a sort of ladder that lead up into another tunnel. This second tunnel also had an emergency light. Both agents climbed the ladder.

"This is how we get to the second floor," April said. "It's an original secret passage, but Napoleon had it changed to connect to the rest of the tunnel. It's very small. Gain too much weight and you'll never fit in here."

"Well, that'll leave the James Triton types out." Mark added sarcastically.

"That's for sure." April said.

Soon they stood at the top landing. April moved to the wall panel. "This is the entry to Napoleon's room." She whispered.

"How do you want to go in?" Mark asked.

"Give me a second." And then she closed her eyes and touched the wall.

It was as if her body was dissolving into a million pieces. She felt herself enter the room. The room was cast in an eerie glow. She observed a figure, clad in white, lying on the bed. She moved toward him without moving her body. She reached for his hands, and their bodies dissolved into one. Through his eyes, she could see a shadow, a dark foreboding shadow. It danced in the glimmer of the candle light... The shadow moved toward her, and in her minds eye, she knew that she was seeing evil. Cold, icy silence followed. The room was still, as if it had been transported to another time.

She moved deeper, deeper into the realty of the moment. The figure in the bed looked up and her breath caught. She turned her body, moving toward the dark figure, touching him, touching something that felt of an ancient evil. And then she was back, Mark by her side, concern evident in his eyes.

"April, are you okay?"

"Yes. But we must move fast. He is there." And then her hands tightened on her gun and she opened the wall panel.

The figure hovered over Napoleon. He never heard them enter. Mark walked quickly to the man who looked like Illya. He grabbed him from behind, tackling him to the floor. The blond man struggled like a wild cat. Too late, Mark felt the sting of a knife entering his body and he released his hold on the man.

April was at Napoleons side when she heard the sharp intake of breath. She turned and observed the man moving from the floor, Mark lying in a bloody heap. The man moved quickly toward her. She brought up the gun and fired once. The figure staggered and grabbed his side for an instant. Still he moved, finally tackling her and throwing her to the floor. She lost her grip on the gun. He was strong, holding her as if she were a rag doll. She quickly got up, took his arm and threw him to the floor. The man grabbed her ankles and she fell on top of him. He moved her beneath him in one quick movement. He grasped her throat and raised the knife above her. And then he hesitated.

April felt an eerie calmness in the room. She saw the candle light moving as if in a dance. The man held her throat tightly, a flash of lightning illuminating him. They locked eyes and she saw into the dark depths of his soul. His hatred for her was palpable. He released her throat, smiling as he did so. And then he laughed. A deep animal laugh. She knew, in an instant, that her life was over. In slow motion, the knife plunged downward, toward her and a gunshot reverberated above the sound of thunder. The man collapsed at once, his cold, unseeing eyes staring into the distance.

April moved from the floor and turned toward Napoleon. She saw him still clutching the gun she had dropped. He uttered her name and then slid into unconsciousness.

Napoleon was having a nightmare. A man was trying to kill him—a man who looked like Illya. He could feel the cold hand tightening on his arm. See the cold blue eyes filled with hatred. He awoke with a start. And saw him sitting by the bed. He leaped back, struggling to get away. He moved from the bed, quickly falling to the floor. The blond man came after him, reaching for him.

Solo scrambled across the floor, kicking and fighting the man. The man was calling his name, speaking in soothing tones, but still advancing. He saw the man stand up and reach back to press a button. The man said something, but Solo couldn't hear. He was too busy trying to get out of the room. The man advanced again and Solo hit him hard, sending him spiraling across the floor.

Solo made his way to the door this time. Reaching for the knob at the very instant April entered the room.

"Napoleon, Napoleon. It's okay. You're in the infirmary at UNCLE headquarters."

Napoleon looked around, not sure if what he heard was the true. How could he be at UNCLE headquarters? He was at the Victorian house and this was some effect of the poison the man had given him. He shrank back as the man approached again. He vaguely heard April tell the man to please leave the room. And then April was sitting on the floor next to him.

"Now listen, Napoleon. You trust me don't you?"

"Yes, you know I do." Napoleon answered.

"Then listen to me. The man you just hit is your best friend Illya. He was rescued shortly before we rescued you. Mark and I went to the Victorian house and found you. You killed the imposter after he stabbed Mark and was about to do the same to me."

Napoleon sighed. He looked confused for a moment, then said, "I forgot. Is Mark okay?"

"Yes. He's at home now, enjoying his time off."

"Everything seems so fuzzy, April. Like some sort of living nightmare."

"I know. That's a side effect of the poison. It will be okay after a while. You just have to be patient."

April stood up. "Let me help you to your bed. Then maybe Illya can come in."

April helped him to the bed. Napoleon was still looking around the room as if he still believed he was dreaming.

"I'm going to get Illya. Okay?" April said.

Napoleon hesitated.

"It's okay. It really is Illya. We checked. We're sure. The other man is dead. Remember?"

"Ah …yes. I think. It's just so vague," Napoleon said softly.

"It's the poison. We were able to give you an antidote, but it's still going to give you problems for a few days. The poison was some type of Thrush invention. Kind of makes the mind muddled. The doctor said that you may have a few problems thinking for awhile. Nothing permanent." April paused, observing Napoleon. "Would you like to see Illya? I'll stay in the room if you like."

"I'm fine. Illya can come in. No need for you to stay. I was just…just a little out of it. I woke up and saw him and thought…."

"I understand." April opened the door. Illya was standing there, concern evident in his face.

"You can come in," April said.

Illya walked in and Napoleon tensed.

The Russian did not approach the bed. April stood by the door.

"I'm sorry I startled you earlier. I was not thinking." Illya said. "I should have waited for things to be explained."

"It's okay. I just thought you were……"

"He is dead, Napoleon."

"I know, April told me. You can come closer now. I promise I won't hit you. Sorry about that, by the way."

Illya approached and took a seat next to the bed. "It's okay. I'll recover."

"I'm going to leave you two alone now. Is that okay?" she asked, looking at Napoleon.

"Yes, I'm fine. I promise not to beat up my best friend." Napoleon said with a smile.

She looked from one agent to the next, noting that Solo seemed more relaxed, less guarded. She walked out of the room leaving her friends alone.

"Are you really okay, Napoleon? I mean, you're not still afraid of me, are you?"

Napoleon smiled. "Me afraid of you, Illya. You've got to be kidding."

Illya relaxed. Both agents talked about what happened to them. Eventually, Napoleon grew tired and slept. The Russian never left his side.

Epilogue

It was a quiet evening in the Victorian house. The two agents were sitting in the library enjoying a glass of vodka and playing chess. The steady tick of an old grandfather clock was the only sound heard in this room filled with books. The library was spectacular with its dark oak furnishings, deep red oriental rugs and large fireplace.

Illya smiled at his companion. "I've won three games tonight, Napoleon. You are truly at your best."

"Give me time, Tovarish. I'm just warming up."

"You know, Napoleon. Why do you insist on playing with me? I am obviously the better player."

"Oh. I see you are being very modest tonight." And then in one quick movement, the dark haired agent moved his chess piece and declared checkmate.

"A mere fluke that you'll never be able to repeat, my friend," Illya said while setting up the chess board.

Napoleon looked at Illya pensively. "We still need to deal with this at some point, you know."

Blue eyes met brown. They had both avoided the topic for weeks. Yet, at some point, both knew that it needed to be addressed.

Illya sighed, "It is most disconcerting to know that someone you trust is not who you think they are."

"Yes," Napoleon said. "Let's face it. This is the second time Thrush has sent in one of their operatives to replace one of us. Both times, we didn't notice the switch until it was almost too late." He shrugged. "You're my best friend and I am not capable of recognizing you. Makes me feel sort of …inadequate."

Illya was silent for a second, and then said, "But you're wrong. In both cases we were suspicious. Circumstances prevented us from pursuing the matter. The fact is we both knew on an instinctive level that we were dealing with an imposter. This will not happen again because we will notice the difference, however subtle."

Napoleon relaxed into his chair. "I suppose you're right. If this happens again, I'm going to take action first and ask questions later"

Illya smiled. "Just make sure it's really the imposter, Napoleon. I hate to think what could happen should you be mistaken."

Napoleon laughed, "Don't worry, Tovarish, I'll be certain. I'll be very certain."

Illya regarded his friend. "Well, for me, it will be very easy to distinguish you from the imposter."

"How's that?" Napoleon asked.

"I shall merely engage him in a game of chess. If he wins, then I will know he is the imposter."

Napoleon laughed. "Hey, I did win that last game."

"Yes, but that is only because I grew tired. That's the only way you ever win."

"Okay, Mr. Modest. Let's see who the better player is."

Both men turned their attention to the chess board. There eyes met for a second and then the game continued.

Fin


End file.
